


Richelieu's Admirer

by LadyCavil



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Love Letters, Prompt Fill, Richelieu's a grump, Secret Admirer, Treville's on the case, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-20 23:30:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6029536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCavil/pseuds/LadyCavil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Valentine's Day draws near, Richelieu becomes aware of a secret admirer but is unwilling to accept the mystery. Thus he seeks help from a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aleysiasnape](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleysiasnape/gifts).



> One day, aleysiasnape, I will actually fill your prompts on time.

                This… is new.  The letter in his hand contains no signature, no personal mark from its sender, and this, he feels most ardently, is unacceptable.

_To His Excellency Cardinal Richelieu_

_All my love and affection._

                “Minister?”

                Now Cardinal Richelieu is not one to flinch, but caught up in the mystery of his admirer (or more likely prankster), Tréville catches the minister off guard, causing him to visibly startle. Turning toward the Musketeer Captain, Richelieu hides his hands behind his back, not unlike one of his more frequent stances, yet there is a forced calmness in the movement which lifts Tréville’s chin in curiosity.

                “What is it?” Richelieu’s words come out with a harsh edge, and Tréville’s eyebrows rise just as his chin had.

                Tréville holds out a leather case and informs the First Minister, “The twelve-page report you wanted signed and sealed in triplicate.” The Captain allows a measure of his irritation and exhaustion to seep into his explanation. After all, he was up all night making sure every page was flawless, and despite copious scrubbing, his hands still bear the ink stains of his efforts.

                In his haste to receive the paperwork, Richelieu reveals both of his hands and thus the previously hidden note. Tréville lingers, awaiting dismissal or some hint concerning the mystery letter, until Richelieu realizes that the other man has yet to leave.

                “Don’t you have a garrison to run?”

                After completing the appropriate formalities of departure, the captain of the Musketeers strides away sighing and shaking his head once he puts sufficient distance between himself and the moody Minister. But if Tréville thinks Richelieu’s state to be little more than a temporary grouchiness, he is quite mistaken.

                As January gives way to the early days of February, the Cardinal’s mood sours further with every new letter he finds, each one professing greater affection and possessing more specific detail than the one before. And so, having had enough, he finds himself knocking on the door of Tréville’s garrison office.

                “Enter.” Tréville’s voice carries a dash of boredom and a smattering of patience worn far too thin.

                “I hope you don’t address the king that way,” Richelieu drawls as he sweeps into the room.

                “Richelieu.”

                “Tréville.”

                “I presume there’s good reason for you to leave the palace to meet with me.” The captain looks up from his paperwork and finds the Cardinal still standing although on the brink of pacing judging by the near twitching of his legs.

                Richelieu does not answer; instead he deposits a bundle of letters on Tréville’s desk and finally begins stalking back and forth while the other man proceeds to read said letters.

                “Someone’s sending you love letters?” This, he must confess, is hilarious, and he finds resisting the urge to laugh nigh impossible yet manages it nonetheless.

                “Yes.” The word is a drawn out and irritated sigh.

                “Do you know who?”

                “ _Obviously_ not.”

                “How is that obvious?”

                “I wouldn’t be here if I knew, would I?”

                Tréville hasn’t seen Richelieu this flustered over something other than a matter of state since they were much younger men. As such, the left corner of his mouth refuses to hold a straight line, instead creeping ever more skyward with each verbal exchange. “Why have you come here?”

                Richelieu takes a deep breath before halting in front of Tréville’s desk and leaning over the wooden surface. “Help me find out who this woman is and I’ll overlook the shortcomings of your Musketeers for a week.”

                “Three months.”

                “One.”

                “Two and a half.”

                “Two.”

                “Deal.” Rising from his chair, Tréville dons his hat and winter cloak before exiting his office. On his way out of the garrison, he quickly surveys the men practicing in the yard and, finding the most senior of them, calls, “Porthos, you’re in charge until I get back”. The Musketeer laughs and ends his match with one of his comrades by throwing him into the dust.


	2. Chapter 2

                “I think it’s her.” The two grown men are pressed up against a door frame, peeking through the small crack of the ajar door while Richelieu points to a rather energetic and exceedingly well-fed noblewoman.

                “Why her?”

                “She once called me cupcake.” The seriousness and suspicion in the Cardinal’s countenance and words leave Tréville thumping his forehead against the wooden frame before slipping away to wander the corridor in pensive silence.

                “How often do receive these letters?”

                “Once every few days in the beginning. Now there’s a new one every day.”

                “And today?” Tréville steps close to the Cardinal, praying that he’s actually on to something.

                “I haven’t been in my office.”

                “They always come to your office? Who delivers them?” The captain turns away and heads for the office of the First Minister.

                “Yes, but I’m not ever there when they arrive. Normally they’ve appeared by now.”

                When at last they arrive, they find a bakery box adorned with a ruby ribbon sitting in the middle of the Cardinal’s desk. Richelieu finds a note tucked beneath the red accoutrement.

_Dearest Armand,_

_I love you more than the most delightful desserts._

                “At least you know it’s not Porthos,” Tréville chuckles over Richelieu’s shoulder. “Didn’t mention your majestic eyebrows either.”

                “What a relief,” Richelieu mutters with a level of sarcasm Athos would respect.

                “Is this the first time a gift was involved?”

                “Yes.” Richelieu steps back from the box as though expecting a demon to spring forth at any moment.

                “Aren’t you going to open it?” A rising eyebrow is the Cardinal’s only response, so Tréville sighs and asks, “Can I open it?”. Of course Richelieu allows him to as long as he himself isn’t killed in the process. However, the contents appear harmless enough, even giving off heat as a testament to their freshness. “They’re sweet cakes.” Tréville smiles despite Richelieu’s continued paranoia and takes a bite of one. “I know who makes these.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Don’t you have a nation to run?” He turns to leave, but the Minister’s sudden hold on his arm halts his forward progress.

                “Take those with you.” Richelieu’s lip curls when he nods toward the baked goods atop his desk.

                Tréville gives up trying to talk sense into the man and so collects the food and departs the palace grounds.

 

                The bakery is tucked away much the way one would hide a treasured possession, and this back alley gem is the sole seller of perfect sweet cakes, in Tréville’s humble opinion. Behind the counter stands the owner’s wife who greets him with a familiarity born of frequent purchases.

                “Should I be concerned that you entered my shop with one of our boxes already in hand? Has Henri been experimenting again?” She says it all with a smile and a wink; Tréville has never returned or complained about his purchases, not even when Henri, the baker’s son, forces new recipes upon him.

                “Not at all. In fact, Athos sends Henri his thanks and compliments for last week’s tarts; he was called away on a mission before he could tell him personally. But I’m here on business. A friend of mine received these cakes this morning. Do you recall who ordered them?”

                “It’ll cost you dinner next Wednesday.”

                “Anything for you.”

                “A young woman about my height, blonde hair, and she had a large birth mark on the right side of her neck. She was dressed as a servant or something of that nature, but that’s all I can recall.”

                “She never gave a name?”

                The baker’s wife shakes her head, but the Captain supposes that a name was too much to ask for. However, he now possesses a new clue in his quest to find Richelieu’s admirer, and, wishing the woman a good day, he sets out for the Bonacieux house in hope that Constance might have encountered the young woman in her business or on the streets.

 

                “I’m sorry I wasn’t helpful,” Constance apologizes as she walks Tréville to the door. “Have you… I hate to ask, but have you asked Aramis?”

                “No, he’s on a mission with Athos, but he’s due back this evening. I didn’t want to encourage his nocturnal habits. Thank you for your time, Madame.”

                And with that Tréville returns to the Musketeer garrison.


	3. Chapter 3

            When Tréville enters his office, he finds Porthos sitting at his desk looking over whatever paper lay before him.

            “Any messages?”

            “One from Aramis. Seems somebody was rather keen on keeping that information away from our outpost. He and Athos managed to deliver it, but Athos was hurt along the way. Aramis figures they won’t be back until late on the 13th.”

            Tréville reads the missive over Porthos’s shoulder while Porthos summarizes the information, but his summary lacks the humor present in the letter itself. The script changes style several times, indicating that Athos had disapproved of some of Aramis’s included details by way of scribbles and scratches followed by the older man’s writing only to return to Aramis’s yet again. Doodles decorate the edges which typically meant Athos had been ranting and Aramis had grown bored; this is far from the first time the Captain had received a message from them in such a state. Truth be told, he doesn’t mind it either; if they are well enough to bicker, there is little reason to worry over them.

            Porthos sniffs the air and turns a curious eye on Tréville. “Captain, have you spent the day in a bakery?”

            From within his cloak Tréville produces the cakes Richelieu had dismissed earlier in the day and sets the box on his desk. But in the same second, someone knocks on the office door, and Tréville opens it to find one of the Cardinal’s messengers holding what appears to be very expensive alcohol.

            “From the Minister, sir. He says it’s from her?” The question in the young man’s voice is clear, but the Captain ignores it and instead tips the fellow and closes the door behind himself.

            “Something to eat and now something to drink as well. My thanks for watching the garrison while I was away.” Tréville opens the box, pours wine for two, and settles on the side of his desk to enjoy the fruits of Richelieu’s paranoia.

            Several hours later Porthos emerges from Tréville’s office declaring, “The picnic was delicious. The champagne was excellent. Remind me to send the Cardinal a note.”

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

            Try as he does, Tréville comes up with no new leads, finds no other trace of the mysterious woman before the dark hours of the thirteenth when Aramis and Athos return. Aramis goes with Athos to the still-recovering man’s room, and Tréville and Porthos follow after. Once Athos is resting comfortably under several blankets and the others are settled in various places throughout the room, the Captain recalls his mandate concerning Richelieu’s admirer.

            “Aramis, do you know of a blonde woman with a birthmark on the right side of her neck?”

            “You do realize that Aramis is almost exclusively interested in blondes, don’t you?” Porthos flashes a clever grin which Aramis would normally respond to, but his mind’s too focused on working its way through his extensive catalogue of fair-haired women to react.

“I know several women fitting that description. Care to narrow the search, Captain?”

            “In Paris.”

            “Then Esmée is the only one I know. Is she all right? Has something happened?”

            Having kept Richelieu’s predicament a secret long enough, Tréville decides to tell the tale from its beginning to the present moment, never withholding just how entertaining he finds the matter. When he finishes, he looks around the small circle of his men and pays close attention as they trade glances between themselves. He’s not surprised though; several of the letters used inks Aramis had spent entire days praising and rejoicing once he’d finally saved enough to purchase them.

            “We have something to confess,” Athos drawled from his bunk.

            “This is in no way a prank,” interjects Aramis so quickly he practically speaks over Athos.

            “Aramis met a lady,” Porthos adds.

            “Oh, God.” Tréville groans and contemplates the effectiveness of locking Aramis in a closet for a month but decides such measures would backfire in the end.

            “And on several occasions she expressed interest in our beloved First Minister, so…”

            “We decided to lend our aid in her wooing of Richelieu,” Aramis continues Athos’s narrative, “although now that I’ve said it out loud, I’m questioning our decisions.”

            “We told Aramis’s lady she should send out Esmée should she decide to purchase gifts for the Cardinal within city limits.” Porthos crosses his arms over his chest and also begins pondering why they’d done what they had.

            “How is she meant to woo him if he never knows who’s doing the wooing?”

            “She’d planned to reveal herself on Valentine’s Day.” However, Aramis had only just returned from a mission, so who was to say whether or not she had changed her mind in all that time?

            “That’s tomorrow…She can’t.”

            “Captain?” Three sets of eyes fix themselves on Tréville who’d omitted a detail in his earlier storytelling.

            “If I find the woman responsible for this, Richelieu has promised to leave the Musketeers alone for two months. Convince your lady to allow me to introduce her to the Cardinal; we all win that way.”

            “I’ll have a message sent to her.” Aramis jumps up from his chair and leaves to scribble a note.

            “Who is she?” Tréville asks his remaining men.

            “Adèle Bessett,” Athos yawns before nodding off.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

            The next morning, the five of them meet near the main gate of the palace, the three Musketeers having escorted Adèle there and Tréville stepping out after taking care of some business while the day is yet young. The Captain leads her to the Cardinal’s office; she smiles the entire way, even when Richelieu leaves them waiting outside for nearly an hour. When at last they are called in, Tréville never needs to open his mouth. Richelieu takes one look at the lovely Adèle and dismisses the Musketeer Captain with a wave of his hand as though he were addressing one of his Red Guard.

            Returning to the corridor, Tréville finds his men standing and waiting, hats in hand, for some clue as to the Cardinal’s mood.

            “Honestly I don’t think she needed you at all.”

            As they head back to the garrison, Tréville tries to ignore the plotting of his most devious Musketeers now that they’ve got two months of terror at their disposal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! This story exists because of a prompt I received from the lovely aleysiasnape on Tumblr and here on AO3. Thanks for reading! :D


End file.
